


Gun It

by firesonic152



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sanadate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesonic152/pseuds/firesonic152
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, Yukimura should have knocked before entering. Instead, he chooses to invade his roommate's privacy and just barge on in. At first, he doesn't understand what he is looking at: Masamune, curled up on the bed, shaking, and for a moment, Yukimura thinks he's crying. (SanaDate)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun It

" _Shit_..."

Masamune is almost embarrassed at how weak his voice is, breaking as soon as it hits the air. He fumbles with the blankets, it's too hot, too hot, _too hot_ \-- 

He feels the sweat on his palms as he tugs his pants off, shakily pressing against himself. He feels like a teenager again, the moans bubbling up in his throat, the dream caressing his skin, toes curling. " _Pathetic_ " is the word floating around in his head; pathetic, that an image of Yukimura his own brain conjured up would get him like this.

Masamune rolls onto his side, curled in on himself, _shuddering_ , blindly pressing his hand between his legs, face buried in his pillow, and his neck hurts at the awkward angle, but if he doesn’t muffle his voice he’ll _scream_ from the aching in the bottom of his stomach, his chest, his heart-- 

He gasps a breathless “ _Yuki_ \--” and then bites the pillow again, squeezing his eyes shut against the darkness of his room. He needs something, _anything_ , just take away this longing, fill up the emptiness inside him, _please_.

* * *

 

And this is the state Masamune is in when, out in the hallway, Yukimura’s yawning, almost falling over from fatigue after a double-shift at Shingen’s dojo because Sasuke had to go help his friend with a school project. Or something, he wasn’t really paying attention. It’s late and he wants nothing more than to go to bed. Following several long seconds of clumsily sorting through keys, he unlocks the door to the apartment he shares with his new friend and long-time rival - neither could afford rent on their own, it was just easier with this arrangement. He opens the door quietly, figuring said roommate, Masamune, is asleep already. So there he is, innocently tiptoeing to his room when he hears something weird from Masamune’s tightly shut door. 

In hindsight, Yukimura should have knocked before entering. Instead, he chooses to invade his roommate’s privacy and just barge on in. At first, he doesn’t understand what he is looking at: Masamune, curled up on the bed, shaking, and for a moment, Yukimura thinks he’s crying. _Did he have another nightmare…?_ The brief thought flashes across his mind with rising worry. But as he steps closer, understanding dawns on him and he freezes, cheeks red, when Masamune realizes he’s there, turning his head to stare at Yukimura like a deer in the headlights.

"Yu--" Masamune starts but cuts himself off as his voice cracks and it’s dark, but Yukimura could have sworn he’s blushing. Well, that makes two of them. They stare at each other for what feels like years until Masamune makes a strangled gasp and fists Yukimura’s shirt, dragging him down to slam their lips together. Yukimura doesn’t remember climbing onto the bed or in between Masamune’s legs or tangling his fingers in Masamune’s hair - all that matters is the searing heat of their tongues.

It’s only when Masamune starts tugging impatiently at his shirt that Yukimura pulls away, gasping. “We-- _wait_ ,” he’s fumbling, “Masa--” But then Masamune rips his shirt off and he’s getting pulled in again. Masamune’s biting at his lip and curling his sharp nails into his bare back and Yukimura just can’t _stop_. He groans low in his throat and moves one hand from Masamune’s hair to his thigh, pushing it away so he can press closer, closer… His earlier fatigue forgotten, he relishes in the heat.

As Masamune’s hands start to wander lower on his back, Yukimura again drags himself away, breathless, vision hazy. He’s burning, fire licking up his limbs, scorching his throat, and he _swears_ he’s breathing steam - Masamune isn’t much better either - but he can’t just _do_ this in good conscience. With more self-control than he believes he will ever muster again in his whole life, he sits back on his heels, though he doesn’t move his hand from Masamune’s thigh, and clears his throat.

“ _Wait_ ,” he repeats, ignoring how rough his voice has become, “Masamune, what’s… what is this?” By _this_ , he is referring, of course, to the sudden dramatic turn their relationship seems to be taking. Masamune throws his head back with a frustrated groan but Yukimura waits for a response anyway.

Time is distorted once again, lengthening each second to impossible distances. The silence is stifling, stretched out like a shimmering desert, the heat still smoldering deep in Yukimura’s flesh, and he is _this close_ to giving up on talking and--

“Fuck me,” Masamune finally says, uncoiling Yukimura’s twisted haze. His voice is broken, a little too high, but strong with conviction all the same.

“But--”

Yukimura tries to protest again because _that explained nothing_ , but then Masamune yanks him down and hisses, “I swear to _God_ Yukimura, if you don’t fuck me _right now_ , Sasuke’s gonna find your body face down in the river tomorrow, _got it_?” 

Well. How could Yukimura possibly refuse when Masamune was so adamantly demanding? For once, time decides to condense instead of expand and he’s diving back in, momentarily straying to Masamune’s neck and chest with his tongue and teeth but quickly returning to that sinful mouth. He finds it far more satisfying to swallow those desperate moans whole, far more intense when Masamune curls his fingers in his hair and pulls him down closer, lips never disconnecting except for a brief gasp of air. 

He vaguely registers removing two pairs of underwear. Or, rather, he doesn’t recall it exactly, but he’s sure it must have happened at some point because they’re both naked and Masamune must be the devil himself or he wouldn’t be so _merciless_ in urging Yukimura’s hips down. Yukimura's helplessly caught up in grinding against him, losing himself to the delicious friction - he's always loved that rush of skin between them, craved the tangible clash of battle (sometimes he dreams they use swords and spears instead of their plain fists, flashes of color still dancing behind his eyelids when he wakes).

Then hands - Masamune's calloused, strong, _beautiful_ hands - are pushing against his chest and Yukimura can’t even respond to the action until he’s forced to, abruptly shoved out of Masamune’s space. He blinks, dizzy, numb with the inferno buzzing just beneath the surface of his skin, and furrows his brow childishly to express his confusion. His wordless question is answered when Masamune sits up and twists his body to the side to rifle through the drawer of a bedside table (Yukimura totally doesn’t mentally trace every line and ripple of his muscles). A bottle is produced from the depths of the drawer while Masamune mutters something about how he “doesn’t wanna regret this in the morning.”

This isn’t Yukimura’s first sexual encounter, but he’s never gone as far as the direction Masamune seems to be going in before. The fire in his stomach feels like it’s slowly devouring his insides now rather than fueling his passion and he only notices his hands are shaking when Masamune squeezes his wrist.

“Woah, Red, you’re not sick, are ya?” Masamune’s voice sounds like it's coming from some distant mountaintop through miles of thick clouds. Yukimura shakes his head automatically and Masamune's saying something like "You're pale as hell" but it's all background noise. Yukimura kisses him again to shut him up and the quiet, broken only by shaky breaths and muffled whines, is soothing. Filling his lungs with Masamune's air steels his heart and the queasiness is still rolling around, but he doesn't mind it so much anymore.

"I'm okay," he murmurs against Masamune's lips. The only sign of acknowledgement he's given is an aborted nod - more a halfhearted quiver of his head - before they're desperately clinging to each other once more, fighting to control the oxygen between them. 

Masamune miraculously gets his hands free and hastily wets his fingers with the contents of the bottle Yukimura had forgotten was there. He pauses his assault on Masamune's mouth to watch in fascination as those fingers, trembling ever so slightly, reach down to his ass and _in_ (one, two--) and _God_ Yukimura's never felt so helplessly entranced in his life. Masamune's face is nothing short of _breathtaking_ , his eye glazed over, cheeks dusted with crimson, delicately chewing his lower lip; Yukimura blindly gropes for the discarded bottle and carefully inserts his own finger next to Masamune's, memorizing the way his mouth opens in a silent cry, how the skin around his eye crinkles as he snaps the lid shut, how his free hand unconsciously digs its nails into Yukimura's back. He feels like a scientist, studying the different reactions Masamune has to every twist and thrust of his finger, the varying muscles that tense, what makes his toes curl, his back arch, and when he loses the ability to hold back his voice.

Then Masamune's shaking his head, tugging weakly at Yukimura's arm. "Sto-- Stop," he chokes out, " _dammit_ Red, thought I told you to fuck me, not--" Yukimura resists a grin as he teasingly curls his finger, making Masamune inhale sharply. "Fuck you," he says darkly under his breath.

"In a minute," Yukimura shoots back, unable to stop himself from smiling at Masamune's pointed glare as he eases his finger out. He nuzzles his nose into Masamune’s neck, lapping at the tender skin while he gently spreads Masamune’s legs apart, eliciting a low growl.

“How many times do I have to say it,” Masamune grumbles, “I want you to fuck me already. Stop with all the damn sappy stuff.”

Yukimura hums softly, closing his eyes and breathing in Masamune’s scent. He smells like the calm of war and the chaos of cherry blossoms (don’t ask him where those associations come from - the memories are blurred in his mind, dark with the mist of ages past). “So I’m not allowed to make love to you then?” He nearly laughs at Masamune’s immediate jolt, as though the words electrocute him. Masamune opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Yukimura’s done with talking and takes the opportunity to push into him. It takes Masamune by surprise and he gives a little yelp before he is able to press his lips closed. Yukimura gives him a comforting peck on the cheek but Masamune just scowls again. 

"Come on!" he urges. " _Gun it_!"

And Yukimura does, indeed, _gun it._ He steadies his palms on Masamune's hips and rolls into him, forceful but watching for the reaction. When a barely suppressed moan claws its way from Masamune's throat, Yukimura lets go of the last of his reservations, slamming into his friend (is friend even the right word anymore?).

The world is spinning; everything is fire and movement and _Masamune_ and the constant warmth of Masamune's hand in his. Yukimura's panting, distantly aware of the sweat settling on his skin. The pleasure comes in sparks at first, fireworks bursting in his chest, and then in torrents of lava, in his veins, throughout his whole body. His ears are ringing but Masamune’s every little whimper and breathy moan arrives with stark clarity.

It’s like lightning - a flash of infinite intensity and then, in an instant, gone. 

Yukimura doesn’t even recognize the climax until it’s already passed. He becomes faintly conscious of Masamune’s iron-grip on his hand starting to fade, a whisper of his name slipping past Masamune’s lips. Cum is dripping down his stomach and, when he slides back on his heels, from Masamune’s ass as well. Masamune looks utterly debauched, his hair in impossible tangles and sticky with sweat, eye tinged red, parted lips swollen. Leaning down to cover that ungodly mouth, Yukimura figures he doesn’t look much better. This time, the kiss is slow. They take an eternity to map out the details they had missed before, like the ridiculous dexterity of Masamune’s tongue and the fact that Yukimura’s canines are unusually pronounced.

It gets to the point where Yukimura can’t keep his body up anymore and he flops down next to his (rival? friend?) roommate, throwing an arm unceremoniously across Masamune’s chest. Masamune sighs without bite, lifting the offending arm and turning his body to face Yukimura before replacing it nearer his waist. Yukimura giggles and tugs Masamune closer, slipping his other arm under Masamune’s head and hugging him tightly. Masamune sputters for a moment - is he really getting embarrassed after what they just did? - but then relaxes into the embrace, burying his face into Yukimura’s shoulder.

Yukimura is dying to talk about what all this means. Was it a one-time thing (the thought curls uncomfortably deep in his heart) or the first step of a long journey (not a terribly soothing idea either)? But his tongue is all gummy and his eyes are stinging and the exhaustion from when he first walked into the apartment nestles into his very core. He can wait until morning. He threads his fingers in Masamune’s hair, determined not to let him go, and drifts off to the pulsating lullaby of Masamune’s heartbeat.


End file.
